


Gods and Monsters

by Stuffoutsidethetardis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gods and Monsters, I wrote this a few months back and decided to still publish it, If someone wants to write a sequel feel free, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable husbands discuss modern interpretations of Heaven, Other, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Sorry for the enormous cock block but I didnt feel like actually writing the smut, just kidding, lana del rey - Freeform, they fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stuffoutsidethetardis/pseuds/Stuffoutsidethetardis
Summary: Aziraphale discovers a perk of pop music. Then he discovers another...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 11





	Gods and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> I heard Gods and Monsters for the first time in a while. I was inevitably (ineffably, if you will) reminded of our favourite disaster husbands. Enjoy.

_In the land of god and monsters_

_I was an angel living in the garden of evil_

Aziraphale had never truly _understood_ pop music. He could proudly recognize the structure of a symphony and he even dabbled in playing the cello for a brief period of time. He had originally considered the harp, but he could just imagine the look on Crowley’s face and had discarded the idea all together to spare him the trouble.

Over time, however, say, in the past decade, he had discovered one very underappreciated quality of pop that suddenly sparked an interest in him: the ability to keep customers out of his book store at all times. Aziraphale had come to this remarkable conclusion after Crowley had taken some of his own records to the shop and put them on. Apparently, bombarding potential book buyers with repetitive bass lines and breathy background singing made them leave in record time.

So, naturally, this encouraged Aziraphale to invest in a radio. It was secondhand and quite dusty, but fulfilled its duty well. The music itself was a small price to pay for some peace and quiet in the store.

_Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed_

_Shining like a fiery beacon_

Crowley had laughed at him for three minutes straight, after Aziraphale had sheepishly explained. Nonetheless, next time the demon entered the store, jacket and hair damp from the misty rain, he was struggling with a fridge sized stereo installation. Apprehensively, Aziraphale asked him what the meaning of this was. “Figured you’d rather choose what crap you listen to yourself, huh?” Crowley huffed, snapping his fingers to easily miracle the machine into functioning, wires slithering towards the power outlet like white snakes. “I even got you something to test it,” and he tossed Aziraphale a flat square package.

“Oh!” The angel exclaimed delightedly, “I know what this is, it’s one of these… playing disks you keep in the car.” He fumbled with the wrappings, slightly tearing it on accident. It revealed the face of a woman standing against a backdrop of palm trees.

“Born to Die,” Aziraphale mused.

“Isn’t it accurate?” Crowley stood satisfied, hands in his trouser pockets and leaning against the monstrous speaker. “Some humans really get it, you know.” He earned a raised eyebrow as Aziraphale held out the CD to him. Crowley gave a non-committal grunt and twirled to push the disk into the player as Aziraphale popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, pouring the bubbly liquid generously into two glasses.

_You got that medicine I need_

_Fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly_

As the opening beats cracked, Aziraphale noticed Crowley looked rather… tense. He was fumbling even more than usually, sitting on the back of the couch, then standing up to pace around, tugging on his ear and swigging, a square look to his shoulder. Aziraphale cocked his head and eyed him closely, sipping quietly from his own champagne, giving the space around them over to the music. “So you come in, tell me I need to choose my own music, and proceed to make me listen to this?”

The demon looked embarrassed. “Well… Y’know, my car always does this thing, and don’t get me wrong, I love Freddie, nice guy, Freddie, but you can only hear perfect harmonies for a limited amount of time before you begin to crave something new.” Aziraphale nodded along, pointedly ignoring how he had listened to Dvorak’s _Aus der neuen Welt_ over two thousand times and it still didn’t bore him. Was different with _pop_ , he figured.

_Put your hands on my waist, do it softly_

_Me and God, we don’t get along, so now I sing_

“So tell me about this record, then. One of your favourites?” The mention of Her hadn’t escaped Aziraphale’s attention, and however it always intrigued him to hear how humans gave God new forms through their art, his focus was now on Crowley, who didn’t seem all to eager to explain. “It’s just something I had lying around, and it made me think… well, not really, actually. Just…” he took another swig, “Y’know… angels.”

“Angels.” Aziraphale repeated, feeling like Crowley was diverging further and further from the point. He put the bottle down on the nearest cupboard and made his way over to his sofa, sitting on the far end of it, feet neatly on the rug. Crowley moved in a way that wouldn’t have stood out in a modern dance performance, and twisted to the other end of the room, tracing titles on the shelves with his fingertips.

_No one’s gonna take my soul away_

_I’m living like Jim Morrison_

He curled back to Aziraphale, swiping his glasses of his face and pointing them towards the angel, slit eyes flickering in the candlelight. “There’s the thing, Jim Morrison! Good fellow, one of the greatest poets I have ever met. Likes snakes. He’s a delight. Has to put up with my folks now, unfortunately.” He slumped down on the sofa, feet outstretched on the coffee table, which earned him a look. “They’re clean,” he exclaimed, but took them off, crossing his ankle at his knee. “The thing is, it’s about souls. And God. Things you like, you know? I figured you might like it.”

Aziraphale, hardly able to get used to the bass drum beating together with his heart, eyed Crowley sideways. “It’s a… simple song. Enjoyable.” In fact, he began enjoying it more and more as the alcohol went straight to his head. He straightened his bow tie and closed his eyes, giving a twist of his fingers to up the volume.

_Headed towards a fucked up holiday_

_Motel sprees, sprees and I’m singing_

_“Fuck yeah, give it to me, this is Heaven, what I truly want”_

_It’s innocence lost, innocence lost_

It had been a while since he and Crowley had visited a motel, he mused, if ever. He could imagine it, easily enough: white sheets and moldy ceiling, Bible stuffed in the drawer of the plain wooden bedside table, together with a menu for scrambled eggs and hash browns.

Crowley had gone silent next to him, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank deeply. Aziraphale ran his tongue over his teeth as he stood to refill their glasses, wordlessly taking Crowley’s from his hand and turning toward the bottle. It wasn’t like the demon to be so silent, especially when he had had a drink or two. The angel slowly poured new glasses, watching the bubbles rise to the surface.

_In the land of gods and monsters_

_I was an angel looking to get fucked hard_

Aziraphale’s eyes widened considerably and he spun around, shooting Crowley an indignant glare. “Angels _do not_ look for such a thing!” He felt the flush rise to his cheeks, staring down Crowley. The demon had the decency to look away, but Aziraphale could hear him mumble something along the lines of “Gabriel… morning routine” and a second later “…sexual frustration…”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and thrust out the glass, not looking Crowley in the eye as he walked around the space. “I would very much like to know why this particular song made you think of me,” he demanded, clearing the window of fog with his hand, wiping the cold dampness on his pressed trousers.

“I never said,” Crowley began, but trailed off as he accepted the glass. Aziraphale stared out into the street, of which the neon signs of the sixties were still imprinted into his memory, even though they had long disappeared from his view.

_Like a groupie incognito, posing as a real singer_

_Life imitates art_

He heard Crowley arise from the sofa and swallowed, stubbornly directing his gaze forward still, waiting for a reasonable explanation. “Angel,” Crowley begged, and it sounded far closer than Aziraphale had estimated. “I know you’re always eager for modern interpretations of Heaven, aren’t you? I supposed this was an interpretation you had not… had the pleasure of discovering yet.”

Aziraphale turned around and found Crowley inches away from him, eyes on his and sunglasses hung into his shirt, gravitating the fabric around the buttons further down. The angel raised an eyebrow at him and sipped from his glass. “You assume I have no knowledge of the divine coupling of human beings?” Crowley choked on his bubbles, barking out a laugh. “Yeah, genius. I assumed you don’t have much experience with Lust.”

Aziraphale, emboldened by the alcohol in his system, pressed forward, stepping into Crowley’s space, and placing his half empty glass on the cupboard next to them. “You have it wrong. You and the song. You see, it is not so much _getting fucked_ angels worry about.”

Crowley stared at him, wide-eyed.

“This is what you wanted, yes?” Aziraphale continued, ruthlessly, “An opening to make me speak of such things, out loud?” He recalled the start of the song and wet his lips, before they curled up into a smile as he placed his hands, softly, on Crowley’s hips.

_You got that medicine I need_

_Dope, shoot it up, straight to the heart, please_

_I don’t really wanna know what’s good for me_

_God’s dead, I said, “Baby, that’s alright with me”_

Crowley’s breath hitched and he opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. If his shoulders could have gotten further away from his hips, he would have backed away from the angel, but even his snake-like spine kept him trapped here, between Aziraphale’s warm hands. The angel was wearing a smug look, and Crowley had to admit it looked good on him. He could hardly blame Aziraphale; he was right, after all. The song was dirty and lewd and it _had_ in fact made him think of Aziraphale. It had taken him quite a few weeks to work up the courage to introduce the album, and he had cursed his car and its Queen-like tendencies multiple times, for it would have been much easier to have this conversation while driving.

Crowley realised he had been silent for nearly a minute and cleared his throat, head fuzzy from the champagne. “Yes. Yeah, it is.” He spoke, and had barely gotten the words out before Aziraphale leaned in. The demon held his breath as the angel’s lips hit the shell of his ear. “You have it wrong, because angels would much rather do the fucking,” and he bit Crowley’s earlobe, hard.

_No one’s gonna take my soul away_

_I’m living like Jim Morrison_

A strangled noise escaped Crowley’s mouth and his hands helplessly found purchase on Aziraphale’s vest, knees weak and eyes closing. “Ngk… Ziraphale, I didn’t mean…” the rest of the sentence (if there ever was gonna be one) was swallowed as Aziraphale pressed his lips into Crowley’s.

_Headed towards a fucked up holiday_

_Motel, sprees, sprees, and I’m singing_

_Fuck yeah give it to me, this is heaven, what I truly want_

_It’s innocence lost_

_Innocence lost_


End file.
